swas little more than a rough shelter. Diotti
arose at daylightand after a simple repastbetook himself to practise.
Hour after hour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly
he wooed the strings with plaintive songthen conquering and triumphant
would be his theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a
melody more beautiful than ever man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the
borders of his imaginationbut was no nearer realization than when he
began. As the day's work closedhe wearily placed the violin within its
casemurmuring``Not yetnot yet; I have not found it.''
Days passedweeks crept slowly on; still he workedbut always with
the same result. One dayfeverish and excitedhe played on in monotone
almost listless. His tiredover-wrought brain denied a further thought. His
arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable
outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to the floorwhere it lay a
hopeless wreck. Extending his arms he criedin the agony of despair: ``It
is of no use
cheap jordans heels! If the God of heaven will not aid meI ask the prince of
darkness to come.''
A tallrather sparebut well-made and handsome man appeared at the
door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with thyilai:
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The Early Short Fiction Part Twobly